Followers

Thursday, January 1, 2004

John, there is news, and not news.That I am still digging, diligently,to remove what I never planted, is not news.That you are with me in the garden,that the firm white flesh of the taprootis you, and the tickling fronds of yarroware you, this is not news.But the work is hard. And today,as I chopped, hacked, slashed, and wrestledwith mullein as big as a shrub, and rootsin mats and roots in balls, and tangled netsof runners that have no end,I leaned back on my heels to catchthe cool breath of air on my prickly skin,and Buddha was there. (Now this is news.)And he said, "Free yourself of desireand be free of suffering."I said, "What do you think I'm doing here?"And St. Paul, too, was there, exhorting me,"Do not gratify the flesh. Set your mind on the spirit.""Right," I said. "Right."Then Seneca, too, that Stoic:"Be satisfied with your present condition."But do you think even one of these menwould pick up a shovel? They sat in the shadearguing their theories and lies,as I, with my hands in the earth,could already feel the tickle of underground rootswiggling their slow, persistent way back up,seeking, again and again, John,the light that is your face.

I push open the creaky screen door,and stoop down to pick it up,because I must know.It comes rolled up with the headlines inside,a fortune cookie stuffed with misfortunes.Crack it open, and suffering will spill out.

I hesitate. Until I smooth the paper flat,tyrant and victim hover, suspended.Until I read, the bullet hasn’t left the gun,the hammer hasn’t hit the skull,the suicide bomber hasn’t pushed the button.The nails and gunpowder will staypacked tight in their satchel under the shirt.The girl in the market will stand foreverwith her hand on the melon, smiling.

The odds are clear. Death will take his shareand not be cheated. I open and read. I ache,knowing what I can’t stop, what already is.And yet, every morningmy front steps are still here. My screen door,the wet grass, the neighbor’s cat, still here.The rolled baton of newsprint on the stepis cool proof that the presses ran all nightin that big building downtown, also still here.

They told me a hundred thousand died in the blinding flash, in the poisoned air. I began to calculate a hundred thousand: two thirds the city of Syracuse, two packed Carrier Domes. Still, what is a hundred thousand?

It is me. I was there. Skin hung from me in sheets, and not a cloth to stanch the bleeding, as all my clothes had burned away. The rest of my family never came home.

We grieve in particular, not en masse. It's not two million Cambodians, but the rows of skulls, the cracked femur unearthed by the plow.

My crime was knowing how to read. They smashed my glasses before they kicked and pushed me to the field. I worked so tired, so hungry, I wished I could die. When the club hit my head I wanted to live.

It's not five hundred thousand cancer deaths, but Debbie in her hospital gown, the bird-like frailty of her bones.

I noticed the mole. I didn't ask the doctor. My little boy will never recognize the robust woman beside Daddy in the photographs. His mother was too weak to pick him up.

Maybe it's true our imagination is moved by singularity. Still the human heart can hold the sufferings of thousands, even millions, one life plus one life, one plus one plus one.

When she entered a room, the room paid attention. When she entered his house, the leather couches plumped up and shone, the hardwood floors were giddy with tapping against the soles of her small black shoes, the books on the shelves jostled each other for a better view of the waves of her hair.

When she didn't come, the walls held their breath, straining to hear her voice, her laugh. When she still didn't come, that crying noise wasn't him. The white gauze curtains hung keening, as they remembered the stroke of her fingers. And at night, when he turned and turned, it was only because the bed prodded him continually, as the pillows pleaded in his ear, "Bring her back." And when he sat up, his hand on his chest, how could he breathe, when all the air had gone out into the street calling her name?

John, there is news, and not news.That I am still digging, diligently,to remove what I never planted, is not news.That you are with me in the garden,that the firm white flesh of the tap rootis you, and the tickling fronds of yarroware you, this is not news.But the work is hard. And today,as I chopped, hacked, slashed, and wrestledwith mullein big as a shrub, and rootsin mats and roots in balls, and tangled netsof runners that have no end,I leaned back on my heels to catchthe cool breath of air on my prickly skin,and Buddha was there. (Now this is news.)And he said, “Free yourself of desireand be free of suffering.”I said, “What do you think I’m doing here?”And St. Paul, too, was there, exhorting me,“Do not gratify the flesh. Set your mind on the spirit.”“Right,” I said. “Right.”Then Seneca, too, that Stoic:“Be satisfied with your present condition.”But do you think even one of these menwould pick up a shovel? They sat in the shadearguing their theories and lies,as I, with my hands in the earth,could already feel the tickle of underground rootswiggling their slow, persistent way back up,seeking, again and again, John,the light that is your face.